Ummm, yeah

So I hate coming up with titles for these things because most of my posts are so lacking direction or focus. I'm thinking of visiting some random name generator to do it in the future.

I finished this major thing at work yesterday and I think I'm broken. Because I should feel better. Lighter. At least less sleep-deprived. But instead I went home yesterday and the only thing that kept me from crying all night was the chance to finally see Monday's Chuck and Heroes episodes. No, I'm not going to talk about how Heroes has sucked me into its strange cult of fuck!me! right now. There are things happening in my brain that I'm certain psychotropic medications may fix, but for now, I'm enjoying the ride.

I couldn't sleep last night (hence the sleep deprivation), and for some reason, my hands kept itching. Not in some prophetic "money!" way, but in a "Did I eat something weird?" way. But even that wasn't it. I sometimes itch when I'm stressed out. I broke out into hives on the day I was supposed to be competing in the Missouri State Junior Olympics. The night two of our cafe staff and my only other closing lead had to leave the store early, my manager almost sent me home because I was scratching my arms to bleeding. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's spectacular.

But I shouldn't have been feeling that at all yesterday. I should have felt light, grateful, pleased, even.

I am afraid I have become that thing I can't stand - an apathetic human. I know apathy is a normal reaction sometimes. That it protects us from internal and external stresses. My problem is with those who use it as an excuse to not care about anything going on around them, not engage with the world, and keep from even trying to make a difference. I see apathetic people as the close cousins of cynical people. And really, I don't hate such people. I love quite a few cynics, actually.

My apathy, though, is the result of something else. I've spoken before about how I do not know how to ask for help. Trust me when I say: I would rather chew off my own hand sometimes than ask for help. Not because I think I do everything best, but because I don't trust others will come through for me. I have been working very hard to let that go, to trust that the people in my life are willing to step in, hold me up, keep me sane, when I ask for it. But the asking is still hard as shit.

If my life were a movie, it would go something like this:
No, scratch that, not nearly important enough for a movie, maybe TV movie? Nope, nothing melodramatic enough happening. Little indie feature starring Catherine Keener (can she play me? because I lurvs her) that has no actual plot, but little character observations? ...no, then I'd have to have sex with an obviously mentally disturbed Jake Gyllenhaal character.

Hmmm.

Okay, if my life were an episode of Murder, She Wrote, I would be the character incorrectly accused of murder because I couldn't reach out to others and just when my faith in humanity is almost gone, sitting in my lonely jail cell, being harassed by the ignorant local cops, Jessica Fletcher would come riding in on her brilliant blaze of glory and show me what trust in others means, because she trusted I was innocent even though she didn't know me. She just had a feeling about me. Because she's made of all the awesome in the world. There is no more air for awesome when Jessica Fletcher is around. And don't get all "But everywhere she goes, people die!" Yeah? People die everywhere, bub. But with Jessica Fletcher around, you can guarantee the right person will go to jail for it.

My life, alas, is not an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Pity, that. I think Jessica Fletcher would be an awesome friend.

Because when I do ask for help? Really and truly break through that wall and say, "Hey! I'm drowning here! Please help me with this one specific thing, huh?" And whoever I ask says, "No problem!" And I feel better for a little while. Until it occurs to me nothing has been done. So when I do it again, because by this point, I really really need the help. And someone else says, "No problem!" I start feeling a little less better, because by this time I'm thinking...yep, right. No help there either. The laughable part comes when someone asks if they can help me and I say - all excited - Yes! Please! Can you do this? And they look at me and make some assenting noises and...right. Just tell me no, next time, 'k?

So instead of being the plucky girl wrongly accused of murder who learns that help is there if you ask for it, I am now the whiny bag of itchy sleep-deprived apathy who learns she can't count on those who are supposed to be there for her.

So I finished a long-overdue project yesterday. And I should feel lighter. Instead all I feel is the continuing pressure of everything else. And the sinking feeling I'm in this alone.

My gift to you today

...is a reminder that sometimes we citizens of the U.S. do not have all the answers. I work in philanthropy, specifically for a foundation that provides support to grassroots organizations in El Salvador. We have an amazing group of donors who have worked hard to understand that we are not the ones saving poor people in El Salvador; they are doing that for themselves with projects they conceived, study, test, educate, and implement. What we do is provide the funds so that their work can continue until they are self-sufficient. It is not our job to tell them how to save their own people. International donors need to understand this before they send out that check. You are not saving anyone. You are providing the means so they can save themselves.

Right now, things in Burma are a mess and the news that gets out sounds worse and worse. International aid ships are turned away daily. Air-dropped food and supplies are stolen by the junta and used for their own purposes. It is too easy to see this and allow ourselves to wonder in despair how we can ever help. What will happen to those poor Burmese people? Well, of course, they are doing what those poor people in Africa did long before Bono came along: they are saving themselves. The following is a letter shared on the God's Politics Blog. Please read it and keep in mind sometimes we don't hold all the solutions:

As Westerners we want Western solutions for Burma. We want planes to fly in supplies to save people who we know could be saved. We live in a world where we can replace bad hearts with good hearts, clone organs, and do bone marrow transplants. We think putting men on the moon is old school. Flying in a planeload of life-saving supplies should be child's play.

In Burma making a phone call is difficult. Only seven percent of the country's 52 million people have electricity. For Burma's excessively paranoid generals we might just as well ask them if we can fly in a planeload of anthrax as one of aid. To them, this act might save lives but it would poison the culture, and while it may be a culture of fear and defeat, they unfortunately see it as their culture to defend.

To make a difference in Burma we have no choice but to deal with what is, not what we as Westerners think should be. I detest the current regime. I can't for the life of me comprehend their cruelty. This is the side of humanity that makes me want to throw up my hands in utter despair and quit, but I can't because quitting is what allows governments like this to continue.

I am so proud right now to be working with a group of people who haven't quit Burma. A group that spans the globe, a group that is organizing in the face of utter despair and effectively getting help to cyclone victims in ways that could get many of them arrested if they were ever found out.

What is in Burma is that international aid is failing; goods sent in to help disaster victims are being co-opted by the government. The military, once stuck with the problem of how to feed and clothe their 400,000 soldiers, now has enough rice stores to feed them for years to come. Likewise with medicine.

However, what is also happening in Burma is that internal aid is working. Granted that it lacks the fairy-tale effect of a white horse riding in, complete with knight in shining armor, or wizards with magic wands that can turn the horrible truth into a happy ending, but in a very real way, in a very empowering way, Burma's people are saving themselves -- despite the generals.

Supported by those who refuse to quit, a quiet revolt is taking place. A strong grassroots movement is evolving to bring goods to those in need. It travels many routes and is crossing continents and cultures -- some routes are above ground -- small convoys of concerned citizens with used clothing and humble donations, businessmen with enough clout and connections to get permission to transport small quantities of relief – many adopting a village and rallying friends to sustain support - and some routes go underground – traveling through bank accounts and well-established black market trades long used by insurgents and smugglers. Even many military officials, appalled by the suffering they face each day, are denying orders and secretly transporting aid.

I was really amazed when the Saffron Revolution was so easily quashed. I was saddened to see the despondent faces of those I passed every day on the street afterward, people who had had the opportunity to support their most revered and had failed to do so. Defeat went well beyond the monks and deep into the heart of the entire country.

But this time is different. Perhaps because of that defeat, perhaps because the general's decisions to refuse lifesaving aid is just more callous than anyone can accept, I'm seeing strength and unification among people who otherwise may have continued to remain passive.

I really don't know if this will come to fruition, if this will be the catalyst that actually unites an active resistance movement and that that movement will grow. I don't know if the temptation of controlling a well-fed army will serve as the tipping point for internal conflict in the military, but what I do know is that in the face of it all, my faith in humanity is once again being restored. So long as we don't give up, there is hope for those cyclone victims still surviving. So long as we don't give up there is still hope that Burma will change for the better, and in our lifetime. So long as we don't give up, others won't give up.

My thanks really goes out to all those of you who continue to lend support, to all of you who understand that the gap between what should be and what is is currently too wide to jump in Burma, that even planes can't cross it, but that this is not a reason to stop helping.

What should be may never come to Burma, but what is is still worth saving.

Many thanks,

Name omitted by request.

I don't know what's going to happen in Burma. But long after we've forgotten all about them, after the next tragedy, after the election heats up, after the NBA finals, after it is all said and done: they will be taking care of their own.

Because, really, who wants to hear me whine anymore?

Dear Diary,

Sorry I've been such a whiny-butt lately. I must admit this was partly due to missing my family something awful. This past Sunday was Greek Easter (Eastern Orthodox Easter always falls on the first Sunday after Passover - as the last supper was a passover meal) and in my family (as in many Greek families), Easter is the end all-be all of holidays. There is always a ton of food, including a whole lamb being roasted over an outdoor spit. If I can remember, I'll get some pics to post - the nicest touch is the intact head with tongue sticking out! I guess that's actually pretty gross to think about, but if you recall this post, it's not like I was raised in some lily white sense of animal purity. Anyway, the family was all together over at my aunt's house yesterday and I was, well, at home. Since we've moved from New Orleans to Austin, I've spent every Greek Easter pretty low. The husband tried to cheer me up by grilling some lamb fillets, and for that I am grateful.

I was also reading this book at the time. I don't know why I'm suddenly reading such things. It's not really up my alley, but something about it spoke to me. But that's for another post.

And I'm not very happy at my job, which has never been much of a secret. No, I'm not a teacher. Perhaps if I were I would be happier. Perhaps, as music wench suggested, that's what I should be doing. It's what I wanted to do when I started college. Unfortunately, I found the course of study unchallenging (wow. that's not a real word?) and my classmates vapid future suburban soccer mom wannabes. At the time, I couldn't see past that. Now, I believe I could. My current job is as an operations manager for a funding organization. We assist some very cool grassroots groups in Central America. But I feel too disconnected from the work being done to feel I'm of any use. I'm more someone who wants to be the one interacting with the people involved, not worrying about how much donations have dropped in the past 3 months because I have so much stuff to do, I can't get any actual work done.

I suppose this is pretty weak, considering I now spent most of my apology for whining while whining. Just wanted to explain. Thanks for listening.

Love, D.

Holy Fucking Crap!!!

That's really all I can say at the moment.

Really. I don't have time to go into it.

I just had to express the utter holy-fucking-crapness of this day.

Here is a picture to calm me: